


The Night Shift

by silvercolour



Series: Good omens Choose-your-ending [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blood, Falling In Love, First Dates, First Kiss, Human!Crowley, M/M, Now with added vampire politics, Vampire AU, Vampire academia, Vampire!Aziraphale, but that isn’t going to stop Crowley, more tags to be added as chapters are posted, the philosophy and ethics of falling in love with a vampire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24911704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvercolour/pseuds/silvercolour
Summary: Aziraphale had been perfectly happy doing his research in the back of the university library, left alone by students and staff alike. He could spend an eternity here. But everything changes when he meets Crowley, an enthusiastic student who works at the library, and has a penchant for asking way too many questions.This is the story of how they fall in love.A Good Omens Vampire AU
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good omens Choose-your-ending [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1802656
Comments: 83
Kudos: 95
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the Good AUmens fest of 2020! 
> 
> You may have noticed the series name this fic is a part of: choose-your-ending?  
> That means exactly what you think it does! I will be writing TWO endings for this fic, which will be posted as separate parts of this series! So you, dear reader, will get to pick how this story ends for you! Or you could read both, and enjoy two cakes instead of one^^  
> The parts will be linked at the end of this part of the series, but if you want to receive updates you may also want to subscribe to the series itself as well!

_… and bringers of a multitude of plagues, such that, for some time, and in many places around northern Europe, any corpse suspected of being a vampire, ressurection-man, or other form of cursed Undead, would be buried with earth in their mouth, or even a large stone wedged between their teeth.(cf. Atkinson et al. 1956) This was done as a protection or precaution, as it was believed to prevent the dead from rising again._

_A more gruesome variation–_

Looking up from the dreadful book he was reading, Aziraphale cards a hand through his hair and looks out the library window. Closing on midnight already. The librarians would soon start making their last rounds, and send home the last few unfortunate stragglers still working in the library this late. They would also be sending home those who preferred to work late, like Aziraphale.

Not that there were a lot of people like Aziraphale. Not in the library, nor even around the world.

Despite the amount of stories that exist, there simply weren’t a lot of vampires. And why would there be? People who do not die do not feel as much need to procreate. Or at least, most of his kind didn’t. There were always exceptions. Aziraphale shudders when he thinks of _them_. Antagonistic zealots.

To Aziraphale, more than anything else, being a vampire meant being lonely. From the start he never particularly got on with his fellow vampires, and the older he became the faster the years appeared to pass him by, making it hard to keep in touch with humans. Too many people, and too many events to keep track of, especially as technology rushed on ever faster. It allowed news and information and technology to travel in weeks-days-hours-moments where before it had taken days or weeks by land, or months by ocean for any news to reach London at all.

And as the years and the people moved faster, Aziraphale found himself wishing to slow down more and more. In recent years he has undertaken the study of history, focussing on myths and legends- and vampire stories in particular.

These stories were never very flattering, but Aziraphale hoped that perhaps, one day, he might...

Might what? Fix that? Set everything to rights- let the world know vampires are not the monsters they were thought to be in the past, nor the exotic stangers that seemed to populate modern media? 

Prove them all wrong? Prove that he, and all vampires are kind (they are not, a voice whispers in his mind), and mean humans no harm (some do, the voice hisses, why would a wolf be friends with a lamb, Aziraphale, don’t be daft- and the voice sounds less like his own consciousness, and more like Gabriel with each word). It would be a lie.

At least he was back in town– and back in the library with his books and his research, after that unpleasant business from a few years ago–

Aziraphale catches his thoughts meandering and spiralling, and he realizes he has been wasting his precious library-hours (closer to minutes now) until closing time. He sighs, and turns back to his reading.

_...A more gruesome variation, practiced more rarely, was to completely sever the head from the body and place it between the legs inside the grave. This should certainly prevent any body from rising, but likewise involves maiming a body in such a way that an innocent should would not be able to rise again on Judgement Day, as believed…_

* * *

_  
We don’t need no e-du-ca-tion~_

Crowley saunters into the quiet evening library, bopping his head along to his music. As always at this hour, the library is quiet, exam season not yet begun, and the left-the-studying-till-the end-of-term crowd is still out having fun.

Waving at Kerr, who works the far busier day shift and looks like they’re about to fall asleep at the front desk, he waltzes to the back office doors. With a sigh, he switches off his music, and locks his phone and his bag into his locker. No more music till cleaning.

Anthony J. Crowley works at the UCL library, and has –according to his colleagues– the least enviable shift of them all. His is the closing shift, the cleaning shift, the graveyard hours, whatever you might want to call it. From past-dinner-quiet to closing Crowley mans the front desk “And no music, young man! What if someone comes to you with questions?” Said the librarian instructing him on his first day. Crowley listens to the instructions–most of the time. He chases out the poor, late studying sods at midnight, and then cleans the library up, picking up the day’s debris and properly cleaning one part per night, each part in turn till the week is round and he’s cleaned the whole place, and gets to start all over again.

His unenviable shift also pays the best, and gives him the least possible interaction with people, which suits Crowley very well, thank you.

He returns to the front desk to release Kerr from their task.

Kerr seems even more fidgety than usual tonight, as Crowley greets them and trades places.

“Evening Kerr, you okay? Somethin’ happen?”

For a second Kerr looks like a deer caught in headlights, before they shake themself.

“Evenin’ Crowley- nothing bad happened, today’s just been weird, is all.”

“In the library, or just generally a weird day?” Crowley asks, thinking of the weather, which had indeed been weird the last couple of days-

“Well…you didn’t work here yet a few years ago, right?” They wait for Crowley to nod before continuing. “There were some… weird rumours a while back, about the Ghost.”

That sounds incredibly unlikely, but Kerrs seems to be waiting for some kind of response to that, so Crowley shrugs “Didn’t know we had a ghost in here; I sure haven’t seen any, and I work the Graveyard hours, right?” The attempt at a joke falls flat against Kerr’s serious look.

“The Ghost is a researcher, Crowley, he’s not an _actual_ ghost-

“Well why call him that then” mumbles Crowley, more to himself than to Kerr.

“We call him that, because he’s quiet as the dead, dressed in old fashioned clothing and always shows up dead early and stays ‘till midnight, _and_ no one knows his real name.”

Crowley scoffs: “Still sounds like half of the docs doing research in here. I swear some of those oldies never seem to need any sleep.”

“Well, yeah, but you gotta understand, he does give _a name_ when someone asks, it’s just that he uses some super old name that was never removed from the system,” Kerr says shortly. “The Ghost calls himself Mr. Fell, but someone once checked, and even in the _really_ old paper records there’s entries from a mister A. Fell borrowing books. As in, actually more than two _hundred_ years ago, Crowley.”

“So? Perhaps he’s got a family name, lots of those pompous types do, don’t they?”

Kerr stands up with a huff. “Listen, that’s just the story as it was told to me; I don’t work the night shift. But the guy who did, a few years back? He quit because weird people kept trying to enter the library late at night, or lurking outside, or- I don’t know. It’s just- he swore up and down that the Ghost never did anything, but all the creeps would say is that they were there to see mister Fell.”

Kerr is about to leave, but he turns back to the desk. “Just, be careful okay? Don’t try to be brave if any creepers show up, and just- I don’t know, call security if you have to?” A sadness crosses their face “We don’t want to lose more people to the Night shift.”

-

Later, after an entirely uneventful evening, Crowley gets ready to evict the last studious no-sleepers from the library. He remembers Kerr’s words, and as he switches on his music he wonders if he’ll know which one of the people here is this weird old Ghost.

_~all in all, you’re just another brick in the wall~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Today on “it’s my story I can do what I want with it”: cleaning a whole library alone? Unlikely and unwise. Required for the purposes of this fic? Yep.
> 
> Note 2: Kerr(they/them) is a nickname, and is short for Kerberos. They guard the gate to ~~hell~~ the library. Their parents both studied classics. Kerr hates their name.
> 
> NEXT CHAPTER: a first meeting!
> 
> Please let me know what you think so far!


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley and Aziraphale meet, and there is no sauntering vaguely downwards- only falling very hard for each other.

  
It would be wrong to say Crowley took pleasure in evicting the late studying students from the library, like it was something malicious he was doing. He’s only doing his job- and probably doing most of them a favour by sending them home. Half the occupants left in the library looked like they hadn’t seen their beds for several days.

Even so, Crowley does have fun sending the students home, waking up the one or two who have fallen asleep over their books. It had become a game, of sorts. Before starting his last rounds he’d make his bet: how many sleeping, how many students versus how many researchers, how many couples using the library for… un-library-like purposes?

Tonight he adds a new category to his game: how many ghosts will he be able to find tonight? (Crowley’s guess is one, because Kerr usually knows what they’re talking about.)

He’s almost done with his lap of the library (no couples yet, but two sleepers more than he had predicted), when he reaches the Mythology section on the second floor. This part of the building is older than the front- and main halls, the bookcases more solidly built and more solidly packed with books that betray their age by their smell as well as their look.

There is rarely anyone in here late at night, so Crowley is entirely unprepared for the very loud, very outraged “No!” he hears just as he turns the corner to the decidedly-not-empty desks by the window.

“Usually people wait for me to tell them to leave before they complain about it, you know,” Crowley’s mouth speaks before his brain catches up.

Silhouetted against the dark windows is a man in the most impractically white suit Crowley has ever seen outside of a cousin’s wedding he had not particularly wanted to attend at the time. His curls are a halo framed by the night outside, his reddened cheeks fit for a cherub– and for several endless heartbeats the man reminds Crowley of an honest-to-god Bernini statue.

That’s when he notices the fact that the cut of the impractical (but _very_ well-fitted) white suit is also decidedly old-fashioned, even by average university-researcher-standards. The man doesn’t just look like he came from the previous century, he might as well be from the _start_ of that century. Either that, or he’s into costumes, which is not as unlikely as Crowley might have thought before taking this job.

As his brain catches up to the fact that he may have just found the Ghost, even if to Crowley’s eyes he seems more real than any person he’s seen that day. He marks it as a success on his mental tally anyway. 

“Ah- no I’m- I was-,” stutters the ghost. He combs a hand though his curls, as if chasing away an unwanted thought, and takes a deep breath. “Apologies, I know I shouldn’t be so loud in the library, it’s just… Well, this book is just so terribly inaccurate, I couldn’t contain myself.”

“You do know you’re in the _mythology_ section, right? I reckon most books here could be considered inaccurate,” _and with_ _that_ Crowley thinks _I’ve probably just insulted his entire field of research- well done, me_. His Bernini-ghost blinks, and then a smile warms his face.

  
  


Aziraphale feels his mouth stretch into a smile of its own accord as the sharp young man talks. He should perhaps not have been shouting, but the specific text on vampires he had been reading was so painfully inaccurate that most fictional vampire stories might have more correct information than this would-be academic article.

The man here to interrupt his studies tonight is not the same guardian who worked here when he last visited. _That_ man had had a tendency to whistle dreadfully tunelessly while doing his rounds, and so Aziraphale had been able to avoid him most nights, leaving a few minutes before he could be interrupted. It had apparently earned him a reputation, which had been the very thing Aziraphale had been trying to avoid at the time. 

The man lurking next to the bookshelves now is a striking figure, lean legs and leather jacket worn as though it were a suit of armour– protective, but also a challenge. Not everyone would agree with him, he's sure, but Aziraphale would describe the sharp angles of his face as _very_ handsome.

 _This_ man was nothing like his predecessor, both in looks, and in spirit. He is younger, for one, angular in quite a beautiful way, and looks young enough to have just finished his degree. Also, quite obviously, not afraid to speak whatever is on his mind.

He should not be thinking of such things, however. No good can come of it, he knows that much. Heaven knows he’s lived more than long enough to figure that one out.

Still smiling, Aziraphale betrays nothing of his thoughts, and says instead: “I do know it, my dear. I’ve come here on purpose.” He glances around the section, the many old books standing in their ranks, on their shelves. “I hope to prove many of these texts wrong, someday.”

  
  


Crowley’s brain is still playing catch-up on the fact that the man with the halo for hair just called him ‘my dear’: _get your act together, Crowley, it’s a perfectly normal thing to say, have you seen how the man dresses?_ A barely voiced thought follows it: _wish it wasn’t though- wish it was something he’d only say to-_

While his brain attempts to process the situation, his mouth once again acts on its own: “How’re you gonna prove that then? S’not like you can do empirical research on things like gods and fairies.”

He could swear he saw the angelic smile tug into a smirk for a moment, as Crowley kicks himself for putting his foot in like that. And the man really needs to stop smiling like that, Crowley thinks, or his brain will never catch up again.

“Even if it were possible, I’m sure they would not much like to be studied. Creatures like that are usually quite attached to their privacy.” A pause, breath-long, as they both gaze at the other, wanting to speak, waiting to speak.

  
  


It’s Aziraphale who breaks the quiet that filled the air: “Forgive me for asking, but I’ve been away from the library for a few years– you didn’t work here at the time, did you?”

He asks this not just out of curiosity, but also out of concern. Night watchmen of libraries have a decidedly low turnover rate in his experience, and Aziraphale had expected to be greeted by familiar horrid whistling, and a familiar grumpy face tonight at midnight. Though the change is a handsome- no, a welcome one, he cannot help but wonder what happened to- Tyler? Had that been the man’s name?

“Nah, I wasn’t. The guy working here before me up and vanished one night, and no one else seemed to like the graveyard shift much, so it’s all me now.” 

“How strange,” strange, and _not good_ , Aziraphale decides. He’ll have to look into that, sooner rather than later. Perhaps his vanishing act had not been such a good idea after all. “In any case, it’s a pleasure to meet you, my dear. My name is Aziraphale, I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other more often– I’m quite a night owl when it comes to studying, I’m afraid.” He laughs, but it sounds nervous to his own ears.

  
  


“Oh don’t worry, I know you’re the Ghost! You sure don’t look as old as the stories made you sound-” Crowley exclaims, and immediately feels a blush cover his cheeks. Really, it would be nice if he could stop talking any time soon now. “Sorry- I mean- I’m Anthony, Anthony Crowley… Please just call me Crowley, everyone does. ‘S nice to meet you.” The last part is directed more at his own shoes than it his Ghost- whose name he now knows.

Laughter bright as ringing bells calls his eyes back from his shoes- mr. Fell’s, apparently not the slightest bit insulted at being called a ghost.

“I’m surprised the nickname stuck around for the years I’ve been gone, but yes, I am he.” His eyes crinkle with soft crows feet to match his smile. “Now, I’m sure you came here to evict me, my dear, I’ve kept you from your work for long enough, and I apologize for that.”

Crowley would like nothing less than to make mr. Fell leave, but the man is right, he does still have a job to do. Unfortunately.

The mythology section was the last part of the library Crowley had to check, so he waits for Mr. Fell to clear up his books and gather his things. Then they walk back to the entrance in silence, the quiet companionable enough, though it feels like the silence could be more, could be better used somehow. Crowley isn’t sure how.

For a moment he thinks of offering to help him carry his bag, and then has to fight to stifle the giggles the thought brings him. What is he, twelve and in love for the first time?

When they reach the entrance mr. Fell pauses, and Crowley steps up to block his path for a moment. “I’m sorry for calling you a ghost, mister Fell.” It seems important to say this now- can’t start their… acquaintance off on the wrong foot. “If you wanted I could get those rumours to stop, you know. Maybe spread some stories about a vampire living in the basement instead? Just say the word!” His offer is perhaps overeager, but Crowley desperately wants to make it up to mr. Fell, even if he doesn’t appear offended.

The soft crowsfeet are back, accompanied by a smaller smile this time. Even in the bright lights of the entrance hall his blonde curls look like a halo, Crowley decides.

“My dear Crowley, I appreciate your kind offer, but I truly do not mind. It’s only a silly little rumour after all. Besides, I would not want to wrongfully accuse some poor student of being a vampire.” A sigh, soft as a summer breeze, escapes him. “I am not sure I shall be back tomorrow, but I hope to see you again soon Crowley.”

The words sound strangely sad, although it doesn’t seem to be about their goodbyes this night. Crowley would be concerned he’s missing something, but he’s a bit distracted by the fact that the beautiful and mysterious mr. Fell said he hoped they would meet again soon.

He steps back, out of mr. Fell’s path with a soft: “See you again, mister Fell.”

  
  


Shouldering his bag, Aziraphale's smile grows larger. “Please, there’s no need to keep calling me mister, my dear. A good night, Crowley.” He nods to Crowley, and walks to the doors. 

Behind him, even softer, he hears: “Good night, Azira.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Why yes, Crowley does believe Aziraphale’s name is Azira Fell. Aziraphale thinks “Azira” is a nickname, and thinks it's _very_ sweet of Crowley. How long is it going to take before Aziraphale corrects him? Well, it’ll be a while.
> 
> NEXT CHAPTER: a second meeting, and an invitation!
> 
> Please let me know what you think so far!


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale takes a short trip out of London to try and have a serious talk with some vampires, and Aziraphale and Crowley meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, a HUGE thank you to everyone who has read, commented, and left kudos on this fic so far- I'm so happy so many of you are as excited about this AU as I am, it really means the world to me!!
> 
> Secondly, it occurred to me that I hadn’t mentioned this before, because it hasn’t come up yet, but: vampires in this story are not the same as the stereotypical, turn-to-dust-in-the-sun vampire! This is why Aziraphale is doing research on the subject, he wants to fix some very dumb superstitions and beliefs.

The next night mr. Fell – _Azira_ , Crowley reminds himself– is indeed not in his spot in the Mythology section where Crowley found him that first evening. Earlier, when he arrived for his shift Kerr had been adamant they would have noticed if someone dressed that weirdly had entered the library during their shift.

After listening to Crowley’s description of mr. Fell, and denying having seen him, they add: “You sure paid a lot of attention to what this guy looked like, didn’t you, Crowley?”

“Err…” Crowley fished around his brain for an excuse. “Well, had to make sure we’re talking ‘bout the same Ghost, right?”

“Hm, sure, is that why you know more about his outfit yesterday than what you’re wearing right now?”

“What d’you mean, I only–”

“You _only_ know exactly what kind of old-fashioned suit he’s wearing, down to the tartan of his vest,” Kerr interrupted in their most sarcastic voice. “And you’re wearing your T-shirt inside out, Crowley.”

Rushing to his locker, Crowley yelled over his shoulder: “He just stands out, is all, you’d have noticed too!” The sound of Kerr’s “sure, Crowley” followed him to his locker.

Once dressed normally he relieved Kerr of their duty. The rest of the evening is spent nervously checking his watch, the visitor’s logs on the computer, the time on the computer, and his watch again, until finally it’s time to start his rounds.

There’s no one in the Mythology section that night.

Or the next night.

The third evening, after Kerr leaves with a “Good luck with your Ghost hunt, Crowley!”, he resolves that this is the last time he’ll look for his Ghost. If Azira isn’t there tonight he _has_ to let this weird thing go. He makes this decision shortly after his shift starts, and manages to change his mind only twice before he has to walk his rounds around the library.

Tonight is a friday night, and seems to be even more quiet than usual. Crowley arrives at the Mythology section earlier than planned, and takes a moment to steel himself.

  
  


‘Azira’ Crowley had called him. No one had ever given him a nickname before. Or rather, no one had ever given Aziraphale a nickname that he _liked._

For the rest of that night, and several nights afterwards the nickname would float across Aziraphale’s mind, surfacing at the most inopportune times.

 _‘Azira’_ he heard as he hailed a cab.

 _‘Azira’_ he heard, as he arrived at his flat in Soho, situated above a bookshop, of which the owner was… a family friend.

He heard it again as he fell asleep, and it echoed in his ears as he woke up the next evening.

Sleep is perhaps not the right term for what Aziraphale does, which is something he intends to address in his research on vampires. He rests, and he can let go of some of the control on his thoughts– to daydream, as it were. But vampires do not truly sleep, and Aziraphale has forgone sleep for years at a time when he had to, and sometimes still forgets to sleep even now. But he does like to “sleep”. The resting gives him a break, and he often finds himself better able to work afterwards.

This day, Aziraphale rests, and when he gets up at nightfall, his mind returns immediately to that young man, saying _‘Azira’_ in the brightly lit library hall, looking as though he’s just been given a gift.

Much though he would like to see Crowley again, Aziraphale has important matters to attend to tonight. Crowley’s predecessor apparently vanished after Aziraphale did, which is bad.

Aziraphale needs to make sure this does not happen to Crowley too, because that would be even worse.

So instead of going to his beloved library, Aziraphale takes a cab to a manor house a short distance outside London. He only lets the cab take him as far as the gate to the property. It’s best not to bring strangers here, he learned that early on.

The walk up to the manor isn’t long, but the quiet night stretches around him. Not a sound seems to interrupt the still autumn air beside the crunching of gravel under his shoes, the sound of his own steps up the stone stair to the entry and his knocking on the wooden door.

The house used to be medieval, but has been rebuilt and added onto so many times the medieval foundations are lost to everything but memory. Aziraphale much preferred the clean medieval lay-out over this modern maze of wings and corridors the house has become through the centuries.

It takes a long time for the door to be answered, though Aziraphale has no doubt that they saw him coming, probably noticed the moment he stepped out of the cab.

When the door finally opens he sees Michael– meaning they definitely saw him coming, and also definitely made him wait on purpose.

Aziraphale chooses to remain pleasant despite this.

“Aziraphale! We thought you were still touring the world, hadn’t heard you were back yet.” That may or may not be true. Michael always seems to know more than they say they do.

“Good evening Michael. I’ve only recently returned to town. I need to talk to Gabriel.” This is all true, and about as much information as he’s willing to give Michael.

Michael shakes their head faux-sadly and says: “Gabriel isn’t in, but he should be back soon. Why don’t you come inside and wait for him here? Make yourself comfortable.” Gabriel’s absence must be true, it’s not something Michael would lie about, Aziraphale thinks.

He accepts Michael’s invitation, and they exchange some more polite (untrue) nothings before he is left alone in the library. His reading is interrupted only once, when a younger clan member brings him a carafe of blood, prattling something about this being an excellent vintage. The man is right, although Aziraphale only takes a few sips. Indulging too much only creates more thirst, he has found.

He is left alone until sunrise, when Michael comes to inform him that Gabriel hasn’t returned yet, but should still be back soon, and offers him a room for the day, which Aziraphale accepts.

This time when he closes his eyes and hears _‘Azira’_ in Crowley’s voice the sound keeps circling in his mind. _‘Azira’._ He’d hoped to stay hidden from the clan for a while, do some research without being bothered by the others. _‘Azira’_ But someone vanished, and Crowley could possibly be next, and Aziraphale cannot let that happen.

He rises before nightfall, early enough that no one else is awake yet, and returns to his seat in the library. It isn’t until past midnight, and he is rereading one of the few decent books he’s found on the shelves, that he is interrupted by Sandalphon barging in.

“ ‘Phale, heard you were back! You're still not done reading books, I see?” Sandalphon has always been too loud for Aziraphale’s taste, and he is one of the reasons Aziraphale usually does not like nicknames.

 _‘Azira’_ he hears again, and holds the thought close.

“I suspect I never shall, Sandalphon,” Aziraphale replies quietly. “What brings you to the library? Has Gabriel returned?”

“Ah, you hear for him then? No, he’s not back yet. I just wanted to see you, that’s all,” the smile Sandalphon gives him is very wide, and very insincere. ‘ _I was bored so I came to bother you’_ is what Aziraphale hears. Sandalphon does not try to hide anything, unlike Michael. Aziraphale suspects the man couldn’t lie if he had to, if only because he sees no reason to lie.

Both of them care little about clan business, which might make one think they would get along. One couldn’t be more wrong. Sandalphon’s disregard for business is because he has a one-track mind, and generally only wants to talk about his hunts. These hunts could mean either food or sport, Aziraphale knows. Sandalphon’s appetite is as voracious as his bloodlust, although whether he is talking about humans and when about deer isn’t always clear.

“Do you know when Gabriel will be back? Michael said he should be back soon?” Sandalphon is old, as old as Aziraphale, and that makes him important. Even if he hates the business side of being part of a clan, Sandalphon might still know where Gabriel is.

“Last I heard he’d be back before the new year, ‘Phale.” Aziraphale almost drops his book.

Michael might be the clever one, but Sandalphon has never been slow. He guffaws: “Ha, Michael didn’t tell you? Perhaps I shouldn’t have said, then. But yeah, before the new year is the best we know, ‘Phale. You should stop hanging around humans so much, it screws up your time perception, I'm telling you.”

Aziraphale closes his book and rises from his chair. He could’ve spent these evenings in the library at UCL, studying ( _s_ _eeing Crowley,_ his mind supplies). He could’ve stayed hidden a while longer.

“Thank you for letting me know, Sandalphon. Do tell Michael I’ll be back to visit when Gabriel returns. I must go back to London now.” Sandalphon’s eyes narrow at his cold politeness.

“I’ll let them know, ‘Phale, don’t you worry,” there’s a mean glint in Sandalphon’s eyes as he says this, and Aziraphale does not like it one bit. “You missing out on a hunt or something?”

Of course Sandalphon would think that.

 _‘Azira’_ Crowley's voice echoes in his head.

“No, I’m not,” Aziraphale says emphatically.

-

It takes a long bus ride and the rest of the night before Aziraphale finally arrives home. It takes him far longer than that to put Sandalphon’s words out of his mind.

He is not missing out on a hunt. He _isn’t._

Aziraphale does not go to bed that day. Instead he stays up, thoughts whirling and twisting inside him.

Should he even go to the library again? He does not wish to endanger any other librarians (and specifically _his_ librarian). And he truly does not intend to hunt. Aziraphale never hunts where he studies. It’s just rude.

He does want to see Crowley again, see his smile, hear him say ‘Azira’ again.

But he still doesn’t know what happened after he left last time. Should he wait? At least till the new year, or whenever Gabriel deigns to return? Except he told Crowley he’d be back soon.

It wasn’t a promise, yet Aziraphale is loath to break his word.

In the end that is why he does decide to go to the library again. It wouldn’t be right to back out of a sort-of-promise.  
  


Taking a deep breath Crowley rounds the corner of the bookcases into the mythology section. Azira isn’t there, but on the seat by the window are stacked a few books, and a bag occupies the chair. There’s no owner in sight.

Crowley looks back down the stacks where he came from- no one there either.

He sneaks forward, taking a peak at the open notebook. The notes inside are hard to read, the handwriting tiny and terribly old-fashioned.

“Crowley!” A familiar voice exclaims, and Crowley spins around, almost losing his balance.

“Sorry Azira, I swear I wasn’t snooping on your research!” He’s back, he’s finally back, and Crowley feels like singing, if only he hadn’t just he hadn’t just been caught sneaking a look at whatever probably-important definitely-illegible research Azira is doing.

He sees Azira blink in surprise for a moment, before he replies softly: “Of course not my dear, that’s quite alright.” He huffs a laugh. “In fact, I’d be happy to let you read it, but I would be surprised if you could read my handwriting.”

Is it Crowley’s imagination or did this ‘my dear’ sound softer, and more meaningful than last time? Must be his imagination running wild. That has got to be it. And he’s allowed to read Azira’s research! Although Perhaps Azira could tell him about it instead? That way Crowley could just listen to Azira talk.

“It is a bit hard to read, yeah,” he admits with a laugh. “Very pretty though.” As he says it he looks at Azira, not at the notebook. 

“ ‘S good to see you back, I missed you the last few nights…” Crowley trails off. That’s too much right? Too weird? Gotta be, they barely know each other after all. 

He’s already mentally kicking himself when Aziraphale’s answer cuts through his thoughts like a ray of sun through a cloudy day. 

“I missed you too, dear. I’m glad to be back, and even more so for being able to see you again.” If the words were like a ray of sun on a rainy day, Azira’s smile is like looking at the sun itself, so impossibly bright to Crowley that he has to look away. While looking down, he can only see Azira’s shoes as he softly walks closer.

“Will I see you again next week?” Before Crowley can think better of it the words rush out.

It’s a silly question, beyond silly even. Of course they will, the man has to study _somewhere_. It’s not like there are any other places where he could study this late, and apparently he needs the books here in this section. 

Crowley shuffles a step back to make room for Azira, and instead bumps into one of the piles of books. He twists around to rescue the books as Azira rushes forward to do the same. Together they save the pile from toppling onto the floor. 

Books safe, Crowley suddenly notices quite how close he’s standing to Azira– they’re standing toe-to-toe, close enough to touch, so close that it becomes almost impossible _not_ to touch.

“Thank you, Crowley,” Azira’s smile is soft, and so is his tone, and hearing his own name pronounced so gently is something Crowley is not used to at all. It’s some he’d like to hear more often– every day even, if only that wasn’t such a weird thing to think.

Oh for Someone’s sake– Kerr was right when they said he was getting obsessed.

“As for your question, my dear,” Crowley’s mind struggles to catch up, still reeling from close-enough-to-touch, and name-spoken-gently, while Aziraphale forges on, seemingly unaffected “We don’t always have to meet here you know.”

Ngk-

Wait.

Had Azira just– had he just asked him out?

He must’ve misheard, that has to be it. Best to check, clear up the understanding now (avoid any heartbreak later), Crowley thinks.

“Er, uhh, yeah, sounds wonderful?” He hears the question in his own voice, and worse, he can see Azira heard it too. Best to bite the bullet now. Crowley takes a deep breath. “Soisthislikeadate or...just...?” Halfway through he loses his momentum.

Azira does not respond for a breath, and Crowley feels his heart skip a beat. That’s it, he had to open his dumb mouth and ask. He sighs.

  
  


Aziraphale waits for a moment, and a moment longer, thinking Crowley may continue his question. By the time he realizes Crowley isn’t going to continue the silence has stretched the distance between them, and seemingly doubled it. 

Aziraphale would like it to be a date, he’d like nothing more than to spend an evening (or more than one) in Crowley’s company, and to be called ‘Azira’ the whole time.

Aziraphale would love to get to know his sharp librarian better, and is at the same time afraid of moving too fast and too slow. Extended lifespan he may have, but his patience has not improved with it. He can barely wait to open a good book after he buys it, only takes the time to savour a good meal because it would be rude not to do so.

And he would like nothing more than to go on a date with a man he’s only met once before. With Crowley, who calls him ‘Azira’, and smiles a crooked smile as bright as a bonfire at night.

All of these things are only Aziraphale’s thoughts, he is terribly aware of that. It must be Crowley’s choice too, not just his own eagerness. It wouldn’t do to guilt the young man into doing something he doesn’t want to do. So Aziraphale does not say _yes_ , and _absolutely_ , and definitely not _I would give anything to spend more time with you._ Instead he says only: “Would you like it to be a date, my dear?”

Crowley’s response is instant, and his face lights up like a firework lit. “Yeah- yes, I’d love that.”

“Then it’s a date,” Aziraphale beams, a warmth filling his chest in a way that makes him wonder how he could ever have stood the cold emptiness that was there before.

They exchange phone numbers, and agree to meet on sunday night, when the library closes early and Crowley doesn’t have a night shift. Aziraphale insists on picking the place they will be going. Crowley looks like he’s about to object, but relents when Aziraphale insists, as he is the one who invited Crowley out in the first place.

As they walk down to the library’s entrance hall together, Aziraphale hears a sly little voice in the back of his head. It sounds like Sandalphon, and repeats yesterday’s words, ringing like a too-early alarm in the morning. “ _You missing out on a hunt or something?”_

He isn’t, he absolutely isn’t. 

But the thought doesn’t go away until Crowley wishes him a “Good night, Azira.” It’s followed by a tentative: “See you on Sunday, I guess?”

‘ _Azira_ ’. The power such a simple nickname holds over him.

All thoughts of Sandalphon leave his mind, and Aziraphale replies: “Have a wonderful evening, my dear, I’ll see you then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The struggle of writing a pairing that in canon takes 6000 years to get together: everything feels like it’s Too Fast...
> 
> NEXT CHAPTER: A date! Plus some obligatory pre-date nervousness on both sides~
> 
> Let me know what you think so far!


End file.
